Rachel Corrie’s Parents, and 25,000 Hind Rajabs Await Justice in Gaza

by Ghassan Shahrour

On November 19th, at Burning Coal Theatre in Raleigh, I attended a staged reading of My Name is Rachel Corrie, performed by Voices for Justice in Palestine. Twelve readers carried Rachel’s words across the stage, and it felt as though her voice—drawn from her diaries and emails—was speaking directly to us. Her passion, empathy, and outrage at injustice were alive in every line.

Rachel’s journey began in Olympia, Washington, a quiet town on the far western edge of the United States. At just 23, she left home and traveled nearly 6,000 miles to Gaza, driven by a profound need to connect her activism with the lived reality of people suffering under occupation. That immense distance is symbolic: it shows how far conscience can travel when humanity calls.

She arrived in Rafah, Gaza, in January 2003. Less than three months later, on March 16, she was killed by an Israeli bulldozer while trying to prevent the demolition of a Palestinian home. House demolitions—widely condemned by human rights organizations—have been criticized as violations of the Fourth Geneva Convention, which prohibits collective punishment and the destruction of civilian property under occupation. These demolitions, compounded by the long-standing blockade of Gaza, have destroyed thousands of buildings and helped create the humanitarian catastrophe that persists today.

Rachel’s brutal death devastated her parents, Cindy and Craig Corrie. Yet they chose not silence but advocacy, founding the Rachel Corrie Foundation for Peace and Justice. Through it, they have supported Palestinian youth, challenged the occupation, and nurtured the dream of a just peace. Their resilience magnifies the extraordinary role parents can play in transforming loss into collective struggle. Every speech they deliver, every project they undertake, is an act of love that keeps Rachel’s voice alive and reminds the world that grief can be turned into solidarity.

But Rachel’s story is not isolated. More than two decades later, Gaza continues to bury its children, often with the world watching in real time and doing far too little. Among the most searing examples is six‑year‑old Hind Rajab, whose terrified final phone call pleading for rescue during the 2024 assault on Gaza became one of the most haunting symbols of this war. Trapped in a car surrounded by the bodies of her family members, Hind cried, “Come pick me up. I’m scared.” No one reached her in time. Hind, like Rachel, became a symbol of innocence targeted and justice denied.

Her voice now echoes the staggering toll: approximately 25,000 children killed in Gaza since October 2023. To speak of “25,000 Hind Rajab” is to insist that these children are not statistics but human beings whose cries demand justice. Just as Rachel’s parents refused silence, the international community must refuse indifference. The scale of loss compels us to act, not only to remember.

As I sat in Raleigh, I felt the connection between Olympia, Gaza, and our theatre in North Carolina. Rachel’s words traveled across oceans and years, reminding us that solidarity is borderless. The voices of Rachel and Hind—separated by 22 years yet united by suffering—call on us to confront the impunity that allows such tragedies to repeat. And the steadfast advocacy of Cindy and Craig Corrie shows that even in the face of unimaginable loss, humanity can prevail.

This week, as the world approaches the International Day of Solidarity with the Palestinian People on November 29, 2025, their stories carry renewed urgency. This day, adopted by the United Nations in 1977, is not only a symbolic commemoration but also a reminder of the international community’s responsibility to uphold justice and human rights for Palestinians. Gaza’s buildings may be destroyed, its people may endure unbearable suffering, but voices like Rachel’s and Hind’s—and the love of the families who refuse to let them be forgotten—continue to defend human rights and affirm human dignity.

Rachel once wrote, “We have got to understand that they dream our dreams and we dream theirs. We have got to understand that they are us. We are them.”

In Raleigh, in Gaza, in Olympia, and everywhere in between, their stories remind us that solidarity is not a distant ideal—it is a living responsibility.

 Dr. Ghassan Shahrour is a medical doctor, writer, and human rights advocate specializing in health, disability, and disarmament. He has contributed to global campaigns for peace, disarmament, and the rights of persons with disabilities.